


Un Jolis Gâchis

by voluptatiscausa



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, because this is: PLOTLESS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-23 00:35:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19140046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voluptatiscausa/pseuds/voluptatiscausa
Summary: Me: You know who I ship?  Laurence and the French ambassador's nephew.My dear friend: whomsttt?ME: He's in like one scene, a battle with the French and he boards Temeraire and makes like an impressive leap without carabiners and impresses Laurence with his fightingMy dear friend: but no really whostmve?_________________________________________________Laurence visits the prisoner and gets a little hot and bothered and has to take care of it himself.





	Un Jolis Gâchis

**Author's Note:**

> It's my first fic, be gentle. 
> 
> The French is like...google translate.
> 
> The first line is direct quote from the original text but the rest is just me being a horndog.
> 
> More chapters to come!
> 
> And, I cannot stress this enough, this is PWP.

“Bravo,” Laurence said, involuntarily. The Frenchman looked at him startled, and then smiled, incongruously boyish in his blood-streaked face, before he brought his sword up. 

He could hardly have been more startled than Laurence himself had been, though the word had come from his own mouth. Still more surprised to find himself smiling back, even as he parried the Frenchman’s blow. Laurence found he couldn’t help it; there was joy in the lieutenant’s face; joy in the thrill of danger, and, Laurence had to assume, joy in the exercise of skill. For the lieutenant was skillful, that was certain. Skillful, bloodstained, and vitally alive. They grappled closely, until Granby, leading the bellmen, broke through the boarders. 

“Ah, voici un joli gâchis”, the lieutenant said, his voice nearly in Laurence’s ear. Something inside Laurence responded to hearing notes of sadness in that voice, though he had never heard the man speak before. He frowned, his concentration faltering, and found he had been disarmed. He scarcely had time to react before Digby struck the lieutenant on the head, who fell forward into Laurence’s arms, senseless. 

His cheek pressed against Laurence’s, cold from the wind and the height of their battle, but his body was warm, smelling pleasantly of the salt air. Clearing his throat, Laurence congratulated Digby and passed the Frenchman carefully over to the bellman. 

“Mr. Martin, heave this fellow below to the infirmary, will you? He fought quite like a lion.”

*****************************************

De Guignes woke, lying on his stomach, with a pounding head and heavy limbs, but in a soft bed. Looking around the room, he groaned softly with the realization that he had been taken prisoner by the British. To live out the rest of the war with nothing to do in a cold, enemy covert? It was a waste, and despite the pain in his head and his disorientation, De Guignes could already feel that familiar restlessness filling his body, the need to be fighting, to be flying, to be…in danger. 

De Guignes pushed that last away, telling himself he wanted to be useful to his country, to the Emperor. 

He closed his eyes, not bothering to look around the room. He knew was he would see; a chamberpot, a desk, and bars on the window. 

The door opened before he could sink too deeply into melancholy. De Guignes opened his eyes but decided against lifting his head - he wasn’t entirely sure he could. But it was an effort to keep still as he heard footsteps approaching the bed. 

The man who came into view was dressed with utter correctness. Pressed coat, polished boots, and linen so white it practically glowed. De Guignes let his eyes travel slowly up the man’s frame. _Pas une once de réserve sur celui-ci._ Broad shoulders, muscular arms. Impeccably shaved. Recognizing the face he saw, De Guignes smiled. 

“Pourquoi diable vous battiez-vous avec votre épée de cérémonie?”

The man stood even more stiffly; a feat De Guignes would have wagered impossible. Then a more reserved smile than De Guignes’ own touched his face. He was exceedingly handsome, with bright blue eyes and dark blonde hair pulled back into a queue. It was the only part of him not entirely in order, with short strands escaping the plait and framing his face. Was the Captain attempting to grow his hair longer, or did he simply not care to take the time to have it cut? _Peut-être le capitaine était-il un peu vaniteux, un peu fier?_ What a charming thought. 

“Monsieur, je ne m'attendais pas à me battre du tout,” the man answered with passable grammar but a truly atrocious accent. 

De Guignes began to laugh, but halted at the pain in his head. 

“Pardonnez-moi capitaine, je ne suis pas à mon meilleur comme vous pouvez le voir.”

“No, no of course not. Forgive me…” the British captain cleared his throat and then switched to French. “Je voulais seulement m'assurer que vous alliez bien et que vous vous remettiez. Permettez-moi de vous donner mon assurance personnelle que vous serez traité avec honneur et maintenu dans le confort. Je suis le capitaine William Luarence, de Temeraire. Puis-je avoir votre nom, monsieur? Je voudrais vous adresser correctement.”

Speaking in French was clearly an effort. Not, De Guignes thought, out of a lack of ability to speak the language in itself but a slight embarrassment, a vulnerability in exposing his failure to master the accent.  
De Guignes closed his eyes. He could feel himself slipping again into unconsciousness. _William. Trop charmant_ …

“Jean-Claude De Guignes, monsieur. Appelle-moi Jean…”  
*****************************************  
Laurence left the sleeping man, not allowing himself to linger. 

Jean. Jean-Claude. Lieutenant De Guignes, surely? He could not allow himself such a familiarity on so little acquaintance. 

Returning to his chamber, Laurence felt exhaustion begin to take over. He had seen Temeraire comfortable, given his report, bathed and dressed in fresh clothing before visiting the prisoner. He had wished to present a gentlemanly appearance out of respect for the man’s bravery and rank when giving his assurances. He had also wished to make sure that the lieutenant had suffered no lasting damage. It had been a relief to see him open his eyes, to hear him speak with fluency. De Guignes would recover with no ill effects of the brain. Laurence let out a long breath of silent thanks as he began to prepare for bed. 

Once there, however, it became apparent that the exhaustion of his body would not be enough to take him into sleep. He couldn’t stop picturing De Guignes, whose dark hair had been falling in short curls onto his face where it wasn’t restrained by the bandages. Whose smile when he saw Laurence’s face had hit Laurence squarely in the chest with a bolt of joy. 

Had anyone ever smiled at him so? With a simple happiness at the recognition?

And had anyone…had anyone ever perused his body with such blatant appreciation in their gaze?

Laurence groaned softly as he felt his cock begin to harden. He was alone, but he couldn’t help but feel that to take himself in hand while thinking of De Guignes would be a sort of overstep, as if he hadn’t the right to do so, though the man would know nothing about it. 

But what could De Guignes have been thinking when, even lying injured as he was, his eyes had lingered on Laurence’s body? Was he imagining reaching for Laurence, gripping his hips, pulling Laurence to him, opening his trousers, pressing that smiling mouth to his bare skin …?

There was nothing for it. Laurence let his right arm fall above his head, and reached down with his left, his fingers following the path Jean’s eyes had taken in reverse. He trailed over the planes of his stomach, the sharp edges of his hips, imagining Jean’s hands before finally lightly grasping his cock. 

He stroked slowly, breathing quietly, eyes closed, and allowed his fantasies to run riot in blatant indulgence. Laurence was sure Jean would smile as he untied Laurence’s neck cloth, as he kissed his jaw, his neck, his collar bones. Opening the placket of Laurence’s trousers with confidence, with no hesitation, no regret. 

In his mind, Laurence ran his fingers through Jean’s remarkable curls, caressed his jawline, his neck, his shoulders. Rolling his hips, Laurence imagined Jean whispering in his ear in that remarkable voice, praise and endearments that had no place in the mouth of a man he barely knew. 

Laurence’s right hand now drifted to his mouth, where he opened his lips for his fingers, and the vision in his head changed. 

He was kneeling before Jean, taking him in his mouth, holding his hips, Jean’s fingers in his hair, that smile on Jean’s face — and it was over. Laurence shuddered and groaned as he felt his climax shooting onto his belly, running over his hands. 

He took a moment to recover, breathing heavily, before cleaning himself. A stern lecture soon followed. 

He had to have imagined the glint in De Guigne’s eyes when he looked at Laurence. De Guignes was injured, he was disoriented, he certainly wasn’t going to be entertaining such carnal thoughts. And if he were, they wouldn’t be directed at Laurence. Why would a man, who looked so delicious and laughed freely even in such a state, want him? Unless De Guignes found impeccable manners and polished boots to be an aphrodisiac, Laurence felt he had little to recommend himself. He allowed himself a moment of regret; how pleasant it would be to indulge in thoughts of De Guignes as he fell asleep, what lovely dreams he might have. With an effort, he turned his thoughts to other things, to the tasks of tomorrow. 

But even with the edge taken off his desire, he failed. He failed utterly, and when he finally fell into sleep, it was yet with De Guignes in his mind; De Guignes and his remarkable smile.


End file.
